


Not the 'Nog

by webcricket



Series: 24 Days of Christmas Advent Drabbles [8]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: sister!winchester reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2019-02-13 07:33:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12979164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket
Summary: Prompt Item - Eggnog. A craving for eggnog leads to a surprising revelation. Overprotective brothers and angelic fluff. Warning for descriptions of nausea/vomiting!





	Not the 'Nog

“I told you not to drink the gas station eggnog.” Dean holds the hair out of your face, loose locks bunched in a fist hovering at the nape of your neck as you evacuate the contents of your stomach on the roadside. He avoids looking at the frothy off-white aftermath of the beverage oozing on the gravel. It’s probably a good thing, or he’d notice the speckles of foam splattering his shoes. “Isn’t that right, Sammy?” he shouts over his shoulder in the direction of the Impala.

Sam is too far away to hear what Dean said, but he has his suspicions and rudely gestures out the open window, a fake smile plastered on his mien.

“Told him not to eat the gas station sushi that one time. Only safe bet is nachos…”

“Dean, just-,” you moan, weakly swiping at him with your hand as another knife twist of pain churns in your belly as if there might still be something left in there to expel, “-just don’t. Not now.” You silently curse caving to the stupid craving for the sickly sweet thick holiday drink. It wasn’t any good going down, and disgustingly even less so coming up. And you hate that Dean is gloating in the wise older brother I-told-you-so manner he has patented. You cough, easing back onto your heels and wiping your mouth with a coat sleeve.

“Better, kiddo?” He ruffles his fingers through your hair.

Peering up into his concerned if slightly reveling green expression, you nod.

“Hey, thanks for not puking in the car.” Dean hauls you to your feet.

“Mm-hmm, like you’d let me live that one down,” you mumble, leaning against him for balance, keeping one palm pressed to the fading dull ache in your abdomen.

Dean pulls the phone from his coat pocket and glares at the screen, muttering, “Where the Hell is that God-forsaken ang-”

“What happened?” Cas is suddenly there, brow furrowing the moment he perceives your distress.

“-el?” Dean finishes, releasing you as Cas winds a supportive arm about your waist and gently tilts your chin with a hook of his finger to peer into your flushed aspect.

“After effects of bad eggnog,” Dean shrugs, making his way toward the parked car, griping, “Took you long enough to get here, lover boy. She’ll be fine, no thanks to you.”

“Dean!” you scoff after him, voice rough from the strain of vomiting. No one has ever been good enough for you in your brothers’ opinion, especially not, it seems, an angel of the Lord who also happens to be the best friend they’ve ever had.

“I’m sorry,” Cas needlessly apologizes, brushing a stray tendril of hair behind your ear, “I should have been here sooner.”

“It’s not your fault, forget about it.” You clutch at his hand, nuzzling your cheek against his open palm. “I don’t expect you to drop everything to show up every time I get a stupid paper cut, and it’s not fair of Dean to expect it either.”

He squints, blue irises shining inquisitive through narrowed lids. “But this isn’t a paper cut. And you’re still feeling unwell. Let me.” He touches two fingers to your forehead and your eyelids shutter as his grace washes searching and soothing through your body.

“Y/N!” the tone of your name emergent on his tongue is different. A shout and a whisper. Gasped in awe as if he’s seen something astonishing. Something wondrous. Something that takes his breath away.

You open your eyes to meet his wetly glinting blues. You reach for his rapidly rising and falling chest and his vessel visibly shudders beneath your fingertips. “Angel, what is it?”

“A girl.” A tearful happy smile draws his lips wide. His gaze drops to your belly and he falls to his knees. Lifting the hem of your shirt, fingers trailing to caress the soft flesh of your waist to nudge you nearer, he plants a lingering kiss just below your navel. “It’s a girl,” he whispers into your skin. “Hello, sweetheart.”

Your fingers thread into his dark hair, head lolling backward, giggling in glee at the unexpected miracle and the ticklish prickle of his unshaven chin on your delicate skin.

Dean’s fist is poised impatiently over the steering wheel in preparation of honking the horn to hurry you two up when he glances in the rear view mirror. Disbelieving the reflection, he snaps his neck around, groaning, “Son of a bitch.”

“What?” Sam looks over at his brother, eyebrow arched askance.

“Well, it’s not the ‘nog, that’s for damn sure.” Dean jerks his head toward the back window for Sam to see for himself.

Sam’s eyes follow Dean’s lead. “Is she?”

“Looks like…Uncle Sammy,” Dean sighs, both brothers grinning like fools I spite of themselves.


End file.
